


Joys and Cares

by xpityx



Series: Witcher Fics [12]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: “You’re cold,” Geralt told him, a hand on his arm.Emhyr bristled, and then set his jaw when he saw that Geralt had noticed and removed his hand, as if to placate him.“I will tell you when I’m cold,” Emhyr stated.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Witcher Fics [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732639
Comments: 27
Kudos: 176





	Joys and Cares

**Author's Note:**

> First story of 2021! One of many, I hope ^^ (Edit: well, Ao3 doesn't seem to agree - but it's the New Year where I am...)
> 
> Un-beta'd, as I'm writing this on NYE instead of going to bed.

_These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,_

_Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth._

_The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,_

_And sunset, and the colours of the earth._

  
  
  


_Year One_

“You’re cold,” Geralt told him, a hand on his arm. 

Emhyr bristled, and then set his jaw when he saw that Geralt had noticed and removed his hand, as if to placate him.

“I will tell you when I’m cold,” Emhyr stated.

Geralt sighed, something he did a lot, then took off his outer layer and held it out to him. It was a fur lined cloak that Emhyr had ordered made for him then placed into Geralt’s wardrobe without mentioning it.

“Please,” he said, when Emhyr maintained his silence, half out of annoyance, half out of a worry his teeth would chatter if he unclenched them.

Emhyr nodded, which Geralt took for permission to drape his cloak over Emhyr’s shoulders, smoothing it over his arms with unnecessary care. Emhyr allowed it but did not lean into the touch. 

  
  


_Year Two_

Caring was a weakness. Emhyr had known this since his father was tortured to death in front of him; since his wife was swallowed by waves after denouncing him; since his daughter was lost to the wilds. And yet, he could not help the tidal wave of emotion that washed over him when he woke to find Geralt sleeping soundly beside him.

Some nights, when the ghosts of the past lay heavily on his mind, he thought of all the ways Geralt and Cirilla could be taken from him: all the deaths, both accidental and purposeful, that could befall them. Would it not be better to kill them himself? It would be quick, at least: a poison that took them while they slept was far kinder than the end that was likely theirs. 

But he could not make himself give the order, even when Geralt turned to him in the night and sought his warmth. He loved Geralt, yes, but not enough to save him from whatever terrible fate Emhyr would cause him. Not enough to kill him. 

“What are you thinking of?” Geralt asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Poisoning you.”

“Well, don’t think about it for too long—you’re not fun when you haven’t had enough sleep.”

Geralt rolled over and went back to sleep, snoring softly.

  
  


_Year Three_

Geralt had many scars, of course. 

Even Emhyr had more visible scars that he thought was appropriate for an Emperor. Former Emperor. Sometimes the only thing that had saved him was the—well-tended—rumour that he was unkillable, and proof of his mortality was a secret to be kept under heavy brocade and long sleeves.

One set of Geralt’s scars in particular caught at his fingers when they fucked: a set of four, wide claw marks that wound over his left side with obvious violence. They were thick and raised: perfectly smooth in the middle, like a sea-washed stone, then branching out into twisted flesh. He sometimes found himself running his fingers back and forth over them while they lay naked and sated together. Geralt surely noticed, but said nothing. 

He began to have nightmares about them or, more accurately, the same nightmare, over and over with tedious frequency. The scars would re-open, spilling blood and sinew and bone onto the bedsheets, leaving a hollow shell behind. It was not hard to guess at the nightmare’s meaning, but understanding was only ever the first step to defeating something and, for all his skills, he could not find the second step. 

“I dream of these,” he told Geralt, running his fingers back and forth over them as they lay in bed.

Geralt made an interested sound but otherwise didn’t move.

“I dream of them splitting and there is nothing I can do to prevent it, until there is nothing recognisable left of you.”

Emhyr swallowed, knowing that Geralt must be able to hear his heartbeat picking up.

Geralt said nothing, only taking Emhyr’s hand from where it still brushed against his scars and pulling their entwined fingers up to place a soft kiss just above the bend of Emhyr’s wrist.

  
  


_Year Four_

“This is nice,” Cirilla commented.

“There is no need to sound so surprised,” Emhyr replied.

Cirilla tilted her head instead of laughing: something he’d taught her to do. He found himself strangely regretful, despite knowing masking her reactions was an indispensable skill. He would like to hear her laugh. Perhaps later, when Geralt joined them.

“I’m merely congratulating you on a successful retirement, Father,” she said, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth.

He didn’t know how to reply to that in a way that let her know she was one of the reasons for his contentment, so instead he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm as they walked. She leaned against him for a moment, then turned them back towards the house.

  
  


_Year Five_

Emhyr ground his teeth, his fingers digging tightly into Geralt’s arms. He was so close, just a few more strokes and—

Geralt stopped his hand, leaning down for a kiss even as Emhyr tried to form the words to curse him.

“Tell me,” Geralt demanded, tightening his grip on Emhyr’s cock for a moment, startling a moan out of him.

“ _Go fuck your mother’s goats_ ,” Emhyr hissed at him in Elder Speech.

Geralt snorted as he leant down to bite at Emhyr’s throat. His hips thrust upwards involuntarily but Geralt was like a stone above him. 

“Say it,” Geralt whispered to him. “I know you want to.”

Emhyr gave him his best glare, one that had caused grown men to cry, to grovel at his feet, but Geralt only grinned and tightened his grip again.

“I love you! Damn you, I love you,” Emhyr confessed and was saved from embarrassment by his orgasm, which overtook him the moment Geralt moved his hand.

  
  


_Year Twenty_

“Grandfather, Mama says to come in.”

Emhyr looked up from his book to find his youngest grandchild stood in front of him. He hadn’t heard her approach, the snow thick enough to swallow the sound of her light footsteps. Or that was what he told himself, at least. Better that than the thought that his hearing was not as it once was.

“Help me up,” he told her, and she dutifully put her small hand in hers and tugged.

He stood under his own power, but allowed her to take a little of his weight as he did so. She giggled and kept hold of his hand as they walked back to the house, his book safely tucked in a deep pocket. 

“Will _Sofu_ tell us a story later?” she asked, using the Elder word for grandfather. Why she insisted on using the word for Geralt rather than Emhyr, who at least had Elder blood, he didn’t know.

“I have no idea, Adalia, have you perhaps considered asking him?”

She looked up at him with the kind of expression a six year old should not be able to pull off.

“He might say no if I ask him, but he always says yes when you do,” she pointed out.

“Very well,” Emhyr agreed, “I shall ask him.”

“Ask who, what?” Geralt asked, appearing beside them suddenly.

Emhyr didn’t jump but he did glare.

“You’re to tell a story later,” he told him.

“Oh I am, am I?” Geralt replied. “The Emperor has spoken!” he added, to a giggling Adalia. 

Picking her up Geralt placed her on his shoulders and took Emhyr’s hand in his own and together, they entered the warmth of the house. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [The poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47294/the-dead-56d227a2ea215)


End file.
